Early morning poem is getting away from art ,to be ourselves from files of our ancient living, dreams on our atavistic pillow.Poets are by their nature artful.The cunning guile springs from the depths of a hidden country.
Beware of similes, the stanzas a bit adjectival , stated off hand ,a bit made up sense moments.
Sense moments are not truths just tiny holes in tree’s spaces, a trajectory of leaves in the sky that fall off at its first autumn.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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